Chronically Unironic

I have this habit of saying Whatever pops into my head. Realization Is half the battle. •Original poems unless specified•

[serious]

[olearypoetry]

[chronicallyunironic-blog]

Toxicity

I’m dead Got shot in the head By a perfumed bullet that Wasn’t even silver. Don’t call me pretty because I’m not. I’m rotting meat Aging flesh and Living decay. I’m dead Got shot in the head.

MB

[chronicallyunironic-blog]

It’s a beautiful overcast day at the beach

[bled]

[purplebuddhaproject]

It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing. It doesn’t interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive. It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life’s betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain! I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it or fade it, or fix it. I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own, if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, to be realistic, to remember the limitations of being human. It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself; if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul; if you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy. I want to know if you can see beauty even when it’s not pretty, every day, and if you can source your own life from its presence. I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand on the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, “Yes!” It doesn’t interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up, after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done to feed the children. It doesn’t interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back. It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you, from the inside, when all else falls away. I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.

Oriah Mountain Dreamer  (via purplebuddhaproject)

[chronicallyunironic-blog]

Lacking inspiration or Willpower Of any sort. Oftentimes I think for sure I'm going mad. And overthinking just Emaciates Every abstract thought. Ugh. MB

[thoughtkick]

I spent most nights at home falling in love with the idea of you.

Micheal Faudet (via thoughtkick)

[just-shower-thoughts]

I want to be invited to everything but attend nothing

[chronicallyunironic-blog]

Reaching Grasping Desperate Hoping your eyes Will open for me I whisper I scream I plead Please see me Please understand I'm running out of rope No more excuses No more false threats No more promises Reaching Grasping Desperate I've become asthmatic Gasping Clutching my chest I swallow the air You force down my throat As you say you love me I inhale I see your eyes I know you've lied MB

[sleevesofgrass]

i am a museum full of art but you had your eyes shut

rupi kaur (via sleevesofgrass)

Rupi Kaur is one of my current obsessions.

[winebasementthoughts-deactivate]

The time will come when, with elation, you will greet yourself arriving at your own door, in your own mirror, and each will smile at the other’s welcome, And say, sit here. Eat. You will love again the stranger who was yourself. Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart to itself, to the stranger who has loved you all your life, whom you ignored for another, who knows you by heart. Take down the love letters from the bookshelf, the photographs, the desperate notes, peel your own image from the mirror. Sit. Feast on your life.

Love After Love: Derek Walcott

(Wish I’d come across this poem in my early teens)

[chronicallyunironic-blog]

The Label Says It's A Fine Pilsner

Have you ever been alone Outside at midnight And popped open an icy beer? Maybe there’s some merit To eccentric ASMR Because the zing and crack Of thin aluminum In the still summer air Almost broke my heart. And to think I usually prefer Glass bottles.

MB

[chronicallyunironic-blog]

But I loved you In spite of all the pain

In spite of all the promises We couldn’t seem to keep

Partial truths dripping From swollen tongues

Landing like sparks On arid pavement

Threatening to become Self inflicted conflagration

MB

[ipoetried]

“i dream of a love that crawls into bed when you do” // k.p.k

[ipoetried]

Instagram: @karyspk

[meanwhilepoetry]